


Head Full of Steam

by puellamagi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Australia, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puellamagi/pseuds/puellamagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At seventeen years of age, John Watson wanted two things - to get into medical school and to leave Brisbane forever. He was sick of the suburban sprawl, his dysfunctional family, the drudgery of school and part-time work. He wanted to find himself, and there was no way he could do that until he became free.</p>
<p>At seventeen years of age, Sherlock Holmes moved halfway across the world. Nobody in Australia knew him or his family. They didn't have to know his past. Under the endless skies and harsh light of Queensland, Sherlock Holmes could work out who he was. </p>
<p>Sherlock and John are two misfits who become irreversibly drawn to each other, but it's easy to fall in love when you don't really know somebody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The hazy morning light bathed the city of Brisbane early this time of year, and the South Bank parklands were already bustling with activity. An elderly man was dragged along by his excitable Golden Retriever, and baristas were preparing flat whites and skinny lattes for the townspeople. Joggers were out in full force, eschewing a lie-in to take advantage of the pathways before it got too hot.

Brisbane was the kind of town where a murder would make its way to the papers.

Peter Gibson, aged thirty-eight was having a great morning. He was wearing his race-shirt from the most recent _Bridge to Brisbane_ and he was making excellent time. He’d be able to do well at the next race for sure. Approaching the Nepal Peace Pagoda, he decided that it would be lovely to sit and read _The Guardian_ website for a while. Coffee and breakfast could wait a little bit.  

As he approached the pagoda, he heard a woman’s voice. No, a schoolgirl’s voice. It sounded worried, but he could not make out the words.

“Help! Somebody help me!”

Peter considered walking past. He didn’t want to get involved. He knew what happened when a man came across a crime scene. He’d have to speak to the police. Give a statement. They might even consider him as a suspect. While he didn’t have any criminal record to speak off, Peter was wary of cops. He turned around, but he hesitated too long. The girl had approached him. Her hand gripped his wrist, warm and kind of slippery. Blood. Disgusting. Who touches another person when there’s blood on their hands?

He turned around and saw a teenage girl, blond and petite. She had ribbons in her hair. She was wearing a school uniform, although Peter didn’t recognise which school. Why would he? He could probably recognise his old high school and that’s about it. The girl’s pleated skirt was dark blue, with a white shirt that was bloodstained. She was carrying a pink backpack. Her hands were bloody.

“Excuse me,” she said in a trembling voice, “I need your help. There’s been an accident.”

Peter nodded. He didn’t offer words of reassurance, because he didn’t know what to say. He handed his iPhone over. He’d have to get a new case after this. He followed the girl up the stairs towards the pagoda.

He had never seen so much blood. It smelled disgusting. Why hadn’t any cleaner or something come along and found this? Why did it have to be him?

A teenaged girl in the same school uniform was sprawled out near the entrance to the Peace Pagoda. She had mousy brown hair and was lying face down. There was congealed blood sticking to a large wound (gunshot?) at the back of her head. It was like something out of a Tarantino film.

He could deal with this like a rational adult. No use running away now.

“What’s your name?” Peter asked.

“Mary Morstan.”

“Okay, Mary, you’ll have to try and stay calm. I need to call triple 0 and someone from the police will come. They’ll probably send an ambulance as well to check you out. Take my water, and I’ll make the call.”

God damn it. Peter was going to have to deal with so much crap because of a couple of school girls. Why did it have to be him?

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was just having a break in between mowing the back yard and the front," I lied blatantly.
> 
> He smirked, maneuvering his not insignificant lips into an expression that lets me know that yes, he that I had no intention of even starting the mowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my little Australia AU. There will be some notes on things that are specifically Aussie at the end of the chapter. Please feel free to ask any questions about things I've missed.
> 
> My writing of John is very much inspired by Nick Earls, who is probably my favourite author in the world. He's very Brisbane, and his protagonists are self-deprecating, witty and just a little bit out of place in the world.

Brisbane is a city on a precipice, on the cusp of being a teenager and adulthood. It’s a city rapidly gentrifying, with real estate prices increasing proportionately to the number of paleo cafes and coffee carts. It’s a big city with a small-town mentality, or a small town with a big-city mentality. I’m not quite sure which. Brisbane sees itself as a sibling to Sydney or Melbourne, while having little of the prestige or popular appeal of the southern capitals. Brisbane wants to be taken seriously, but nobody really listens to what it has to say.

Brisbane is like me, desperate to forge its own identity while not being sure what that identity is.

It was over thirty degrees and the middle of December the day I met Sherlock Holmes. Most of the residents of Brisbane’s suburban sprawl would be in their backyard pools, basking in the refreshing coldness of their overworked air conditioning units (with little concern for the electricity bill) or braving the crowds of the local Westfield shopping centre. Unfortunately, I had no air conditioning, no backyard pool and even less inclination to go to Garden City at any point during the pre-Christmas shopping rush.

I had mowing to do anyway. It’s a cruelty of the universe that the grass only grows when it’s too damn hot to mow it. The lawn was a bloody disgrace though, or at least that’s what Dad had said before he retreated to the local pub. Mowing always got delegated to me. I don’t know why, because Harriet was perfectly capable of mowing, too. But on this day, it was too hot and muggy to do anything but lie on the front verandah, petting Gough the grey tabby fluffball of a cat and stalking hot girls from school on Instagram.

I heard him approach before I saw him. The clink of the gate opening made Billy the crazy dog next door go off. I heard soft footsteps, the brush of the grass, and a quiet _ahem._ The five steps to the verandah are taken. I looked up from my phone to see a pair of long legs clad in skinny jeans standing at the top step.

I scrambled to my feet to get a closer look and I saw a tall guy, approximately my own age. I recalled how my mother sometimes affectionately called my sister and I fun size. Not a cute way to refer to a seventeen year old boy. If I was a fun-size Mars bar, I guess he’d be king-size. Maybe a Time Out. Tall, thin and imposing.  His hair was a wild, dark curly mess, with a fringe plastered to his forehead by sweat. I wanted to wipe his hair from his brow, which was probably a weird impulse so I didn’t. His face was flushed pink with exertion, but I could tell from the rest of him that he was normally quite pale. I wondered if there was any melanin in his entire body.

“Hi,” I said, scooping the cat up in my arms.

“Hello,” he said, twirling the plastic bag in his right hand slightly. His voice was something else. It was at once confident and naive, a facade of worldliness obscuring the social anxiety and existential angst that affects everybody our age.

"I was just having a break in between mowing the back yard and the front," I lied blatantly.

He smirked, maneuvering his not insignificant lips into an expression that lets me know that yes, he that I had no intention of even starting the mowing.

"I was wondering if you could point the way to Baker Street? I'm new to the area and I wasn't paying enough attention as I was walking to the Woolworth's, and honestly, I'd love to tell you that it was because I was thinking something terribly intelligent, but actually I feel like I'm going to die."

His accent was amazing, the kind of posh English accent I'd only heard in films. He spoke with clearly defined syllables that made me feel like my middle-of-the-road Australian accent murdered vowels and bashed up consonants on its way out of my mouth.

He looked exhausted, which wasn’t surprising considering that it was over thirty degrees and the middle of the day.

“It’s not too far away, but do you wanna come in for a drink of water? You kind of look like you'll die of heat stroke by the time you get to the next block."

“Thank you,” he said and I put the cat down and led him inside.

The kitchen is in a terrible state, with a day or two’s washing up waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. I located him a glass and fetched some water and cordial out of the fridge.

“I'm John Watson," I said as I poured a glass of cold water, "Do you want red or green cordial?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, leaning over the small pedestal fan near the kitchen counter, “Red is fine, thank you.”

“Hope it doesn’t make you hyper,” I said, “I never understood why they only ever said red cordial did that. I mean, it's all sugary crap in the end."

He shrugged but took the drink I offered, downing it in one long swig. He leaned back on the counter, closing his eyes.

“Not used to the heat, huh?”

“Not particularly,” Sherlock said, “I was warned about the heat but I didn’t expect it to be this bad. I’ve only been in the country for about thirty-two hours, mind you.”

“He stares at me. I feel like I'm being scrutinised like a laboratory specimen under an electron microscope. No wonder, I sound like a complete and utter wanker. Welcome to Australia. What a ridiculous thing to say. I might as well say "Watch out for Drop Bears" or wax lyrical about the origins of the pavlova and the flat white. I could bring up the Ashes but I have no idea who won it last or ask what it's like attending Hogwarts if I want to sound even stupider.

Moments pass. It wasn’t exactly an uncomfortable silence, though.

“AFL or Rugby League?" he asked suddenly.

      “Huh?” I gaped.

      "I was trying to work it out, do you play AFL or Rugby League?" he says, keeping his microscopic gaze fixed on me. "Judging by your build, I’ve narrowed it down to those two sports, but I’m not certain. You play a lot of sports at school, although you cut back this year to concentrate on your studies as you want to get a high enough OP to gain admission straight away into a MBBS at the University of Queensland."

      "Oh. Um. AFL. I'm pretty good at it, but yeah, year eleven is coming up so I've got to get a bit more serious about school work. That was amazing though, how'd you figure that out?"

"It was easy enough to piece together," he said, "You've got an athletic build but you've got a bit of softness around the waist so you've stopped exercising quite as much, and you've got a few University of Queensland magnets on the fridge. The fact that you said heat stroke and practically jumped at the opportunity to rehydrate me meant that you had some interest in the healthcare field, something hard to get into, otherwise why would you stop playing competitive sports? So I surmised medicine. Could have been paramedics, though, I suppose".

"That was amazing," I exclaimed. I was gobsmacked, I only just met Sherlock but he had managed to piece together a lot of information about me.

"Really?" he asked.

"Of course, Sherlock.”

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

"I bet they do," I said, stifling a giggle.

“Is it always this hot in Australia?” asked Sherlock.

“Nah, this is probably the worst of it,” I said, opening the freezer, “I’ve got some ice cream if you like. Do you want a Gaytime?”

Sherlock’s eyes practically bulged out of his head.

“Um, I’m flattered by your interest but uh, I’m not really interested in pursuing anything with anybody really.”

Shit. That was one of those uniquely Australian things.

“Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong,” I said, laughing. I brandished the ice cream wrapper. “See, this is a Gaytime. It’s an ice cream. Not hitting on you. I mean, uh, if I went in for that sort of thing I would consider hitting on you but uh. I’m not gay.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, staring at me blankly.

“I mean it’s okay if you are, it’s all fine.” I sounded like a complete idiot.

“I know it’s fine,” said Sherlock.

I stood there, blushing furiously, looking like a complete idiot.

“Can I have the ice cream?” he asked.

I handed it over. Sherlock made short work of the ice cream, and eventually he looked less worn out by the heat. We made small talk about school (he was going to Sunnybrook too, year eleven starting in January) and I told him a little bit about the area while he fiddled around with his mobile phone.

“Can I borrow your phone?” he asked, “I can’t seem to get a signal.”

I handed it over, and he tapped away on it.

“I better be getting back home,” he said after a while, “But feel free to pop around sometime. I’m at 221 Baker Street.”

“Oh, where the girl who was murdered lived!” I blurted out.

Sherlock grinned. “Was she killed on the premises?”

“No, they found her closer to town.”

“Pity. It would have made moving to Australia interesting,” said Sherlock, before running out the door, shoving my phone into my hands on the way out.

I stood there, staring after him for a full minute. I’d never met anyone so interesting. I wondered if I would see him again over the Christmas holidays.  

My phone bleeped.

_Sherlock Holmes has accepted your friend request._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brisbane - Capital of Queensland on the East Coast of the country. It's the city I've lived in all my life and like many residents I have a love-hate relationship with it. I feel like it's losing a bit of its character with the gentrification that's occurring before my eyes.
> 
> Westfield - A big chain of shopping centres (malls). I think they have them in the UK too. Garden City is the big one on the Southside of Brisbane and it's horrendously busy. 
> 
> Sunnybrook - A made up suburb that is based on any number of Southside suburbs (mostly Sunnybank, Mt. Gravatt, maybe a bit of Logan City). There's a very large Chinese population in Sunnybank (as well as other immigrant groups and international students).
> 
> Gough the Cat - Named after Australia's finest Prime Minister, Gough Whitlam. 
> 
> Flat Whites - best coffee, origin disputed with New Zealand
> 
> Pavlova - Good dessert, origin disputed with New Zealand
> 
> Golden Gaytime - the best ice cream. They make it in tubs now and its delicious. 
> 
> AFL and Rugby League - the two big sports in Australia. I don't really like either, but AFL players tend to be hotter. 
> 
> University of QLD - My Alma Mater, it's very old and quite prestigious. They do a lot of research. There's a bit of rivalry between the universities of Brisbane.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was one thing that they kept out of the media though. Her heart had been removed.

Australian Federal Police Sergeant Gregory Lestrade took another long drag on his cigarette. Strictly speaking, he had quit, but desperate times and all of that. The Queensland Police Service had requested the support of the Feds, and that meant Lestrade had to go to the city. Some might say that Brisbane was a small city, hardly deserving of Lestrade’s ire, but he hated cities in general. He hated large towns. Small towns, he could tolerate, but only in small doses.

At least they agreed to let him drive up to Brisbane. He was driving a late-model Holden Commodore, comfortable enough without being flashy. It was reliable enough to get him up from Wyong without any problems.

Greg considered the facts of the case that he knew. A teenage girl, found, eviscerated in the Peace Pagoda at Brisbane’s South Bank Parklands in November. The case was widely reported on in the newspapers and national television news. A young girl murdered in such a gruesome way would easily capture the imaginations of the Australian public.

There was one thing that they kept out of the media though. Her heart had been removed. Christ. Lestrade wasn’t exactly a stranger to investigating murders, but this one was something. He had investigated far too many murdered children for his liking, but this might have been the most gruesome one. There was no evidence of sexual assault, thank god, but still. This girl had been sliced open and her internal organs crudely cut out and strewn around the corpse. The heart however, had been cleanly removed. And nowhere to be seen.

That wasn’t enough to call the Federal Police, however. There has been another one that appeared to be connected.

* * *

When Sherlock walked into his front yard, his mother was already waiting for him.

“Sherlock, where have you been? You’ve been gone an awfully long time. Did you get lost?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His Mum was always like this. Sherlock supposed that she had reason enough to be overprotective these days, but the family had moved halfway around the world. Surely she could relax a little bit now.

“I made a friend,” he said, walking past Mrs. Holmes to get the groceries inside. Good thing there wasn’t anything frozen in the shopping bags.

Mrs. Holmes sighed and put her hands on her hips. “No really, where have you been?”

He put the bags on the kitchen counter and poured a glass of water from the tap.

“Is it really that hard to believe that I can make a friend? Do you, my own mother, consider me to be so fundamentally unlikeable that nobody would ever want to be befriended by me?”

Checkmate.

“It’s not that, sweetheart,” she said, “You know I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Sherlock laughed. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”

“So do you have this boy on the Facebook? That’s what you kids do a lot of now, right? Or is Facebook the one that people use ironically?” Mrs. Holmes asked, pulling out her mobile phone. She fiddled with it for a moment.

“John Watson? He’s cute. Are you going to date him?”

“I just met him,” Sherlock said, mortified.

“Oh, pity, this says he has a girlfriend.”

“I’m leaving now,” said Sherlock, flouncing into his bedroom.

* * *

Inspector Sally Donovan was good police, as the cop shows would say. She wasn’t the most naturally gifted officer on the Homicide Group of the State Crime Command, but she was diligent and methodical.  She had gotten to where she was through hard work, the right amount of arse-kissing but above all, relentless ambition.

Some days she wondered why she wanted to do this job so badly. Today, standing in in the morgue of the Princess Alexandra Hospital, was one of them.

This was the second slaughtered (there was no nicer way to say it) teenaged girl in as many months. She was, again, in a school uniform. Curious, since it had been school holidays for a few weeks for somebody her age.

“Hello Inspector Donovan, it’s great to see you,” said the young registrar, “I guess we need to stop meeting under such circumstances.”

“Morning, Molly,” Donovan said, “Nothing personal, but I really dread the days when I come to see you.”

“So who’s the serious looking bloke hovering over your shoulder?” Molly asked.

“Greg Lestrade,” the man said, “I’m with the Australian Federal Police, assisting the QPS with this investigation.”

“It’s just lovely to have you here, Mr. Lestrade,” she said, “Feel free to help yourself to tea or coffee in the break room. We recently got one of those Nespresso machines in, so it’s a step above the International Roast dirt-water we normally have. I think Tina made cupcakes, too.”

“If it’s all the same, Doctor Hooper, I’d like to see the body of Miss Kylie Cooper,” said Lestrade.

“Of course, of course,” Molly said, “She’s right over here. I think she came from a nice family, her parents were very well mannered.”

Molly let Donovan and Lestrade over to the teenager’s body.

“This one is a little bit less gruesome than the last one, but the heart is removed all the same. I’d say that the cause of death was from this wound to the neck – right through the carotid artery, would have caused massive haemorrhaging.”

Lestrade grimaced.

“It appears as if the heart was removed post-mortem, just like the last one. The incisions are cleaner though, and there was no evisceration.”

Donovan turned to Lestrade. “Considering this body was found in a public place as well – King George Square, and the heart was removed, I think we can consider this to be a serial killer.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Molly, “But what about CCTV?”

“We can’t really comment on that at this point, I’m sorry,” said Donovan.

“Ongoing investigation and all that,” said Greg, grinning, “We’ve got to get back to Roma Street, thanks very much for all your help, Dr. Hooper.”

“Thanks a bunch, Molls,” said Donovan, “Hope to see you somewhere else next time.”

“Well you can call me, you know where I am all the time,” said Molly, grinning, and blushing just a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick A/N: I am amateurish trash with my writing so the previous one is probably going to have some serious editing done. Nothing that'll change the plot, but I decided to keep strictly to third person from here on out.


End file.
